


maybe if i fall asleep, i won't breathe right

by starciti



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Schizophrenia, fantasy plumbing!, robin is an absolute mess, some mirrors were harmed in the making of this fic, will i ever stop using song lyrics as titles? probably not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-28 09:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11415258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starciti/pseuds/starciti
Summary: "Grima is dead," Robin says, his words no more than a shuddering exhale of breath. "Grima is dead."Robin lifts his head, staring through sweat-soaked bangs that hang in front of his eyes like a curtain. Even through them, he can clearly make out the figure that stares back at him in the mirror; the six red eyes and crooked grin are burned into his very soul, after all."Grima is dead?" it asks.To save the future of the world and its people, Grima is slain by Robin's own hand. When he returns, however, he finds himself questioning whether or not the Fell Dragon is truly gone; and he realizes that though he may have saved his home, he couldn't save his mind.





	maybe if i fall asleep, i won't breathe right

**Author's Note:**

> i really just can't write anything happy, can i? like, i Always have to have a happy ending, but... i just don't give these boys a break before i get there, do i?  
> seriously, though. i've Always written robin as someone who suffers from awful nightmares, Especially after the wars, but after reading some other fics, i was inspired to take it a little further. in this fic, robin suffers from ptsd induced schizophrenia; it causes him to suffer from a whole bunch of things, but this fic mainly focuses on his reoccurring nightmares, delusions, and hallucinations that all stem from the fact that he thinks that grima might still be with him, after all that he's gone through.  
> which, really, he's not - but robin doesn't know that.  
> before you start, though, i think it's important to note that while i have personal experiences with a variety of mental illnesses, the ones portrayed in this fic aren't among those! i have done a good amount of research before i wrote this, but i think it's important to note that there are probably some mistakes or things that aren't portrayed correctly.  
> i'll put a list of fics that inspired this along with the articles i read on ptsd and schizophrenia that helped me with how i write this at the notes at the bottom!  
> with that in mind, happy reading!

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

The running water in their washroom is still in need of repairs, after all these years. Robin can clearly think back to a time years ago, back when the Mad King was newly dead and the world was at peace for a year or two, that the rhythmic dripping of water from the other room was what allowed him to fall asleep in an otherwise silent room.  The constant droning of Chrom’s breathing from beside him could only do so much, after all.

Though, these days, it does anything but that.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

White-knuckled hands grip onto the elegant porcelain bowl, covered in designs akin to stained glass, as Robin stares at the slow, gentle rivulets of water that keep dripping from that damned sink. His eyes, impossibly wide and trembling, don’t once threaten to blink or lose focus on the water in front of him. He counts in his mind, trying to still the wild beating of his heart and the violent shaking of the rest of his body; with every perfectly timed drop of water comes another number in his mind.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

One. Two. Three.

Robin takes in a sharp inhale and lets it loose, albeit shakily — breathe, he can’t forget to breathe. Gods know he woke up half choking, since he apparently can’t be trusted to breathe properly in either his waking or dreaming state. He still thinks himself lucky to have made it from their bed to the washroom in the first place, considering the state he’s in; but there was no way he was going to stay in that bed, not with the lingering remnants of a dream still with him. The images of battle and chaos and _death_ are still burned behind his eyelids, and every time he closes his eyes he can see —

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Four. Five. Six.

His body still shakes as he somehow manages to grip the sink tighter, prying his eyes open even further as he tries to force thoughts of dragons and gods and  _death_  back into the deep recesses of his mind. He can’t keep doing this, he can’t just pretend like he isn’t seeing what he thinks he’s seeing — he should _convince_ himself, not just put empty words on a loop as if one day he’ll believe it.

Another desperate breath, another shaky exhale, and Robin speaks:

“Grima is dead,” he says, his words no more than a shuddering exhale of breath. “Grima is dead.”

Robin lifts his head, staring through sweat-soaked bangs that hang in front of his eyes like a curtain. Even through them, he can clearly make out the figure that stares back at him in the mirror; the six red eyes and crooked grin are seared into his very soul, after all.

“Grima is dead?” it asks.

His reaction is instinctive, and immediate; his eyes are clamped shut and his teeth are grinding against each other before Grima can even finish his phrase. But Robin _knows_ what he saw, _knows_ that there’s no way he’s going to be able to convince himself that what he saw isn’t real, even though he _knows_ it’s _not real, Grima isn’t real, Grima is dead…_

In the back of his mind, Robin hears Grima laugh — the sound of it chills him to the very core.

“Grima is _dead,_ ” Robin repeats, more forcefully this time. His mind is screaming the opposite, but he forces himself to say those words.

“Grima is _dead?_ ” it repeats, accenting the same words as Robin in an unfortunately successfully attempt at mocking him. Robin tries to shut his eyes further, but it’s no use — even if he could, there was no escaping the visage of the Fell Dragon that stained his sight whether his eyes were open or not.

_Breathe,_ he needs to breathe. Desperately, he takes in a breath of air, trying with no success to ease the violent shaking of his muscles. He needs to convince himself that this isn’t real, what he’s seeing isn’t real, Grima _isn’t real…_

“Grima,” Robin seethes through gritted teeth, desperately clenching at the sink, preparing for whatever is to come when he opens his eyes. “is _dead!_ ”

Robin does what his mind is screaming for him not to do — he opens his eyes.

Grima stares back at him, crimson eyes just as bright and his smile just as crooked.

“I’m not dead, Robin.”

_Anger_ floods his veins, more sudden and intense than any fear he had been feeling, coursing through his body like the pulse of a Thoron bolt beneath his fingertips.

“ _Grima is dead!_ ”

There’s a flash of pain in his hand, and suddenly Grima’s visage has disappeared, leaving only the cracked remains of the bathroom mirror in his wake.

Anger shifts immediately to shock, as Robin looks up at his hand, curled into a fist and pressed hard against the glass. His fingers sting, as they uncurl, and Robin notes with an expression akin to horror that they’re streaked with thin cuts, because he _broke the goddamn mirror._

Panic bubbles up in the pit of his stomach. He can’t go on like this, he can’t keep breaking down in the middle of the night and destroying his sanity _and_ his possessions, not while Chrom is still —

_Chrom._

He pulls himself out of his violence-induced daze and is suddenly all too aware of a presence next to him. For a moment, he thinks it to be the Fell Dragon himself, gods damn him, so he whips around, and —

Blue eyes stare back at him, filled with no tangible hint of malice — only worry.

Robin can do nothing but stare back.

“Grima,” Chrom says, and though the name makes him flinch, the tenderness in the way Chrom takes his sliced-up hand in his own eases his fears ever so slightly. “is dead.”

Robin trembles, but says nothing.

Chrom’s other hand is warm on his back as they gently draw him close to his chest; he leaves room for Robin to pull away if need be, but it’s clear that he won’t let him go if he doesn’t want him to. Robin leans into the touch without even thinking about it — Chrom takes that as a sign to slip his fingers out of Robin’s hand and gently rest it on the back of his head, pulling him further against him. Robin has no qualms with this, nor with the way Chrom’s fingers, gentle and warm, run themselves through his hair.

“Robin, you’re alive.” murmurs Chrom, his voice as gentle as the way he strokes the sweaty mess of white hair atop Robin’s head. “you’re alright, you’re safe. But Grima? Grima is dead.”

Robin shudders, a violent tremor that wracks his whole body.

“I see him,” is all he manages to say.

“I know,” Chrom says. His voice sounds pained, almost. “I know you do. But Robin, it’s not real.”

“I hear him. He talks to me, like he used to.”

Chrom shakes his head. “It’s not real, Robin. None of it is real.”

Robin lifts his head. The familiar sight of his husband, all blue hair and gentle eyes and a kind countenance, is a welcome change from Grima, but it’s hardly enough to smother his fears entirely. His worries, they gnaw at him, a flame inside his stomach that refuses to be tamed. Not without the proper convincing, that is.

“Then… then what is?”

A pregnant pause preludes the feeling of Chrom’s hands against his shoulders, gently pushing him away just far enough so that they can look at each other, eye to eye.

“I’m real, Robin.” Chrom says, and the tenderness with which he speaks makes Robin’s chest ache. “and so are you, for that matter. But if you ever find yourself wondering what’s real and what’s not, remember that I’m real. I’m real, and I’m _never_ leaving you, Robin. I love you.”

Robin’s throat is thick with emotions and words that he can’t find the strength to say. He must stare at him for too long, for Chrom’s eyes narrow with worry, so he blurts out the first thing he can think of.

“Thank you,” Robin gasps. It’s not much, but he knows he means it.

Chrom smiles, that gentle, kind smile that Robin falls in love with every time he sees it, and he realizes that they both know.

His mind is in a daze, but he can vaguely feel Chrom grab him gently by the hand and tug him back to bed. He sits in silence, as Chrom wraps his bleeding hand gently in a spare piece of clothing — he’ll have to get Lissa to look at that eventually, he’s sure — and lets a cup be pressed gently into his non-bandaged hand. He drinks, unknowing of how thirsty he had been until the water is gone in seconds. Chrom takes back the empty glass and presses a kiss to the side of Robin’s head, clearly pleased and somewhat relieved.

It is not until the candles next to their bed have been extinguished, and Robin is lying safely and warmly in Chrom’s arms, that he truly realizes the gravity of his situation. Here he is, a man whose thoughts and mind are plagued by a being that does not, _cannot_ exist — and yet, he is not alone.

He glances up and looks at Chrom, his husband, his other half — and for a moment, he is certain of one thing.

“I love you,” he murmurs. It is the one thing in which he is sure of.

Chrom’s eyes do not open, but he smiles nonetheless. “I love you, too.”

He nestles himself further into Chrom’s arms — he feels the hold his husband has on him tighten, and he knows that for the first time in what feels like an eternity, he is safe.

Robin’s thoughts are of Chrom, as he slips back into a sleep that he finds to be pleasantly, utterly dreamless.

**Author's Note:**

> ok, i lied, it was only one fic, but it was enough to make me write this whole heckin thing, so go check it out!!  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/11242725/chapters/25127472  
> articles on ptsd:  
> http://www.writerology.net/blog/post/2015/02/getting-it-right-writing-about-post-traumatic-stress-disorder-part-i  
> http://www.writerology.net/blog/post/2015/02/how-to-tell-if-your-character-has-post-traumatic-stress-disorder  
> articles on schizophrenia:  
> http://dankoboldt.com/schizophrenia-for-writers/


End file.
